Wicked Witch Murder

by Leslie Meier

  Fortunately, they were submitted electronically, so all she had to do was read the text and make sure there were no misspellings or omissions. She slogged through several announcements of mortgagees’ sales of real estate, always heartbreaking, and notices of a couple of wills presented for probate. She saved the planning board’s monthly notice for last, because it was the easiest, merely listing the petitioners scheduled for the next meeting. It was a bit of a shock, however, when she spotted Compass Construction among the petitioners and learned the company was seeking approval for a site plan for a shopping mall adjacent to Rebecca’s little farm.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Lucy’s first reaction was to telephone Rebecca; then she remembered Miss Tilley fretting that her friend didn’t have a telephone. So she quickly finished editing the legals, then grabbed her bag and headed back out to the farm. She found Rebecca sitting under the grape arbor, sipping a glass of iced herb tea. Oz, the little owl, was perched on the back of the chair, napping.

  “Would you like some?” she asked, indicating a frosty stoneware pitcher. “It’s my own blend of rose hips, camomile, and mint, with a dash of strawberry syrup.”

  “That sounds delicious,” said Lucy, easing into a twig chair that was a lot more comfortable than she would have suspected.

  “It is,” said Rebecca, filling a glass for her. “I was expecting you.”

  “You were?” asked Lucy, wondering if the witch had ESP or something.

  “I got the certified letter from the planning board today, and I knew they’d be printing the legal notice.”

  “Oh,” said Lucy, slightly disappointed. She took a sip of tea and held it on her tongue for a minute, savoring the refreshing flavors before swallowing. “Has Compass Construction offered to buy you out?”

  “Oh, yes. A nice young man came by some weeks ago and offered me a shocking sum of money.”

  “You refused?”

  “Of course. I was born in this house. My family has lived here for, well, as long as people have lived in these parts. Mother told me that one of our ancestors married into the Native American tribe that was here when he arrived, so our ties to the land go back further than the European settlers.” She shrugged. “There’s no way I could sell. The way I see it, it’s not really mine to sell.”

  An unusual sense of calm had come over Lucy, and she sat quietly, thinking about Rebecca’s reply. Finally she spoke. “When your time comes, who will the land go to?”

  “My daughter, of course.”

  Lucy was shocked. For some reason, she thought Rebecca was childless, a maiden lady like Miss Tilley. “I didn’t know….”

  “How could you? She lives over in New Hampshire, with her daughter.”

  Lucy was relieved. Though it was by no means certain that Compass Construction had anything to do with Malcolm’s grisly death, she had been frightened for Rebecca’s safety when she saw the ad. But knowing she had an heir changed the situation and seemed to protect her. She looked up, gazing at the forest that surrounded the farmlet. “I thought this was all owned by the conservation land trust,” she said.

  “Most of it is, to the north and west, but there’s about fifty acres to the south that is listed as ‘owner unknown.’ I guess Compass Construction found the owner after all.”

  “They tried to buy out Malcolm Malebranche—you know, the man who—”

  Rebecca laid her hand over Lucy’s. It was warm and much softer than Lucy expected, considering how hard Rebecca worked in the garden. Once again, she felt the same calming sensation flow through her veins. “I know, dear. Now, you mustn’t worry about me. Oz and I will be fine.”

  Hearing his name, the tiny bird opened his eyes, which were as large as quarters, and blinked.

  Lucy smiled. “Okay, then,” she said, but she knew it wasn’t okay. Now, more than ever, she shared Miss Tilley’s concern for her friend.

  “Now do you want to see my pumpkins?”

  “Sure,” said Lucy, following Rebecca to a goodly patch of garden filled with sprawling vines in raised beds.

  Rebecca pushed some leaves aside, almost as if folding back a blanket to reveal a newborn baby, and pointed to a green globe about the size of a volleyball. “This one is very promising,” she said.

  Lucy nodded. “How so?”

  “It’s growing faster than the others, it’s nice and round, and I just have a good feeling about it.”

  “Well, I wish you luck,” said Lucy. “I see you’re not worried about sabotage, like some of the other growers.”

  “You mean Ike Stoughton?” Rebecca chuckled. “That man is paranoid.” She gave the pumpkin a pat and let the leaves fall back in place, covering it. “Oz and I are concentrating on the real troublemakers: mice and groundhogs.”

  And with that, Oz soared into the sky and began patrolling the garden.

  But as she took the roundabout way home, Lucy worried that Miss Tilley was right to be concerned about her friend’s safety and wondered if she could persuade Rebecca to accept one of the cell phones the Council on Aging distributed that were programmed to call 911. But as soon as she arrived home, she received such shocking news that her fears for Rebecca were suddenly insignificant.

  “Mom! Mom!” shrieked Sara, erupting from the kitchen door and dashing down the porch steps with Libby at her heels. “It’s awful!”

  “What is?” asked Lucy, enfolding the girl in her arms. “What’s happened?”

  “Abby’s mother…,” she began, then exploded into sobs.

  “What happened to Abby’s mother?” asked Lucy, wiping tears from her daughter’s face with her hand.

  “She died,” said Zoe, who had followed her older sister outside.

  Stunned, Lucy drew Zoe to her, hugging both girls. She’d known that Miriam was ailing, but she hadn’t expected this. “Are you sure?” she asked.

  “Abby called.”

  Lucy saw a glimmer of hope and seized on it. After all, teenage girls weren’t especially reliable. “What exactly did Abby say?”

  “She said the men from the funeral place had come and taken her mother away.” Sara sniffled. “She was pretty upset.”

  “Of course she was,” said Lucy, hugging the girls tighter.

  “Mom, can we go over there? To be with her?”

  Lucy hesitated. She knew the girls were good friends, but she doubted that Ike Stoughton would welcome outsiders at a time like this. “Not today,” she said, coming to a decision. “It’s too soon and I’m sure her father wants privacy. But tonight we’ll make a cake or something and take it over tomorrow.”

  “Okay,” said Sara, pulling away from her mother and sighing. “That’s a good idea.”

  “I wonder what kind we should make?” said Lucy, walking hand in hand with Zoe toward the house.

  “I think a pound cake is always nice,” said Zoe, sounding like Martha Stewart. “It’s so versatile.”

  That was the wonderful thing about kids, thought Lucy: the way they would surprise you by coming out with something completely unexpected. And then she thought how Miriam would have no more wonderful surprises. She’d never see her children marry; she’d never take a newborn grandchild in her arms. And that’s when the tears began to flow.

  Lucy was true to her word, and that night the girls mixed up a pound cake while she tidied up the supper dishes. Once again, her little homemaker, Zoe, surprised her by announcing that pound cake was always better after it had aged for a day.

  “Where are you getting this stuff?” she asked.

  “The cooking channel,” explained Zoe. “I’ve also got some ideas for window treatments, if you’re interested.”

  “HGTV,” said Sara, seeing her mother’s shocked expression. “We discovered all these shows during that rainy spell when there was nothing else to do.”

  “And now we’re addicted,” said Zoe. “You know, Mom, miniblinds are really out. They’re the first thing these designers chuck out.”

  “Leave my miniblinds alone,” de
clared Lucy, tucking a platter in the dishwasher. “They’re cheap and functional, and when they get dirty, I just throw them out and get new ones.”

  “Filling up the landfill,” said Zoe in a disapproving tone.

  “We should get those energy-efficient lightbulbs too,” suggested Sara.

  “I guess we could afford those lightbulbs and get new window treatments, too, if you girls give up your new back-to-school clothes,” said Lucy, putting an end to that discussion.

  The next morning, however, Zoe was right back on the case. “Use aluminum foil to wrap the cake,” she advised her mother. “It’s recyclable, and plastic film and even wax paper are made from petroleum—that’s oil, you know.”

  “I know,” said Lucy, pulling off a length of expensive foil. “Do you think you could manage to write a note?” she asked.

  “On recycled paper?” asked Sara.

  “I don’t know if it is or not, but I’ve got a drawer full of note cards and it would be better to use them up, right?”

  “I suppose so,” grumbled Sara, heading for the secretary that stood in the corner of the living room. “What shall I write?” she asked when she returned with a note card with a drawing of a summer rose on the front.

  “Just something simple like ‘Thinking of you at this sad time.’ And sign it from all of us.”

  “Okay,” she said, bending to the task.

  Soon, Lucy and the girls were all in the car, bouncing over the temporary bridge to the Stoughton place. After delivering the cake, Lucy would drop the girls at Friends of Animals day camp where they had summer jobs—Sara’s paid and Zoe’s volunteer—and Lucy would go on to the Pennysaver. She wasn’t looking forward to encountering Ike Stoughton, or his sons, and she was hoping that they would be out and only Abby would be home. But it was Mather who came to the door, the older one, who was a spitting image of his father, minus the shoulder-length silver hair.

  “We just wanted to say how sorry we are for your loss and to give you this cake that the girls made,” said Lucy, holding out the foil-wrapped loaf.

  “Uh, thanks,” he said, opening the screen door just enough to take the cake.

  “Is your sister home?” asked Lucy. “The girls would like to express their condolences—”

  “What’s going on here?” demanded Ike, suddenly looming behind his son. He was scowling and glaring at them.

  “They want to see Abby,” said Mather.

  “We wanted to say how sorry we are about your wife, and we brought this cake,” said Lucy quickly.

  “That’s very neighborly,” said Ike in a gentler tone. “Abby’s too upset to see anyone right now.”

  “Well, give her our love,” said Lucy, turning to go. “We’re all very sorry for your loss.”

  Ike suddenly erupted, grabbing her arm. “It didn’t have to happen!” he declared. “It was that witch—that evil witch!”

  Lucy froze in her tracks. This was exactly the sort of scene she’d been dreading, and she didn’t know what to do. She turned and faced him, trying to think of the right thing to say but unsure what exactly that was. When she saw his anguished expression, however, the words came to her. “I think that’s the grief talking,” she said softly. “Of course you want someone to blame, some explanation—”

  “How’s this for an explanation?” thundered Ike. “My wife was healthy and happy until that woman came to town. The very day Diana Ravenscroft opened her shop, my poor Miriam started to ail.”

  “A coincidence,” said Lucy. “That’s all.”

  “No! It’s no coincidence. Miriam was good, a living saint, and that’s why she had to die. Witches can’t stand goodness. They have to destroy it.”

  This was an old theme, thought Lucy, seeing how Ike’s son was nodding along. He’d certainly heard this before, and believed it.

  Ike’s eyes were glittering, and he was spitting out the words. “I believe she’s bewitched Abby.”

  “Oh, no,” said Lucy, frightened for the girl. “That’s ridiculous. Diana has no special powers. She’s a witch the same way some people are Catholics or Protestants. It’s a religion, like Hinduism or Buddhism. Just because we don’t understand it or believe it doesn’t make it evil.”

  “You’re fooling yourself,” hissed Ike, looking and sounding like a fire-and-brimstone preacher. “I’ve seen Lucifer in that woman’s eyes.”

  Somewhat unnerved, Lucy saw no option but a dignified retreat. “We have to go,” she said, taking the girls by the hands. “Once again, we’re very sorry for your loss.”

  “You never know how grief will take people,” she told the girls as they walked down the drive, past the garden that now looked sad and bedraggled. Only the belladonna plants along the fence were thriving.

  “Poor Abby,” said Sara when they were all back in the car.

  “Her father is really scary,” said Zoe.

  “He’s very upset,” said Lucy, her heart heavy as she followed the familiar roads. She never would have guessed he was that devoted to his wife, considering the controlling way he treated her, but his enormous grief just went to show that you could never really know how another person felt. She didn’t doubt his grief was genuine, but his extreme reaction worried her, especially the way he was blaming Diana. She didn’t see how any good could come out of this situation.

  When Lucy got to work, she found the funeral director had already faxed over an obituary and a funeral announcement for Miriam Stoughton, which was a big time-saver on this deadline day. She quickly read the obituary, noting that it was extremely brief, noting only Miriam’s immediate family, her devotion to her children, and her love of homemaking. If she had ever held a job, it wasn’t mentioned, and neither were any clubs or organizations. It also omitted the cause of death, so Lucy called the town clerk to find out who issued the death certificate.

  “That would be Doc Ryder,” said Audrey Lyons.

  “And the cause of death?”

  “It says heart failure,” replied Audrey.

  “Well, thanks,” said Lucy, ending the call and dialing Doc Ryder’s office. She’d caught him at a good time, his receptionist told her; he’d just come in from rounds at the hospital, and his office hours hadn’t started yet. Lucy filed the fact away for future reference.

  “Well, good morning to you,” he said, sounding chipper.

  “I’m sorry to bother you,” she began.

  “No bother,” said Doc Ryder. “I was just sitting here, going over lab reports.”

  “Well, I have a question about Miriam Stoughton’s death. According to the death certificate, it was due to heart failure?”

  “That’s what happens, Lucy. When your heart stops beating, you’re dead.”

  “In other words, you don’t really know why she died, right?”

  “Exactly.”

  “In that case, isn’t there supposed to be an autopsy?”

  He sighed. “The family strongly objected, and it was no secret she had been suffering from some undiagnosed ailment for some time. They apparently have no faith in medicine, and I have to admit I’m not entirely unsympathetic to that point of view. I didn’t see any reason to add to their grief.”

  “I understand. I saw Ike myself this morning, and he’s terribly upset. But he’s also accusing Diana Ravenscroft of killing his wife by bewitching her.”

  “Hmmm,” said Doc Ryder.

  “If there was an autopsy, there’d be no question, would there?”

  “Not necessarily,” said the doctor. “Lots of autopsies are inconclusive. Maybe she had stomach cancer; that would be nice and neat. But maybe she had a weak immune system, or overdosed on vitamins or herbal remedies. Those things don’t show up without expensive lab tests that the town can’t afford.”

  “I suppose you’re right,” said Lucy, glancing at the clock, which was steadily ticking its way toward the noon deadline. “Thanks for your time.”

  “No problem,” he said, but Lucy disagreed. It seemed to her that the doctor’s decisio
n to skip an autopsy was going to cause no end of problems. She reached for the phone to give Diana a heads-up.

  “Just wanted to let you know that Miriam Stoughton is dead—”

  “Poor little Abby!” Diana exclaimed, interrupting Lucy. “She must be devastated. I must go and console her.”

  “Not a good idea,” said Lucy. “Ike Stoughton is claiming you killed Miriam by bewitching her.”

  “That’s absolutely ridiculous,” said Diana. Lucy could hear the shock in her voice.

  “Of course it is, but I think you need to be careful.”

  “This is just absurd,” exclaimed Diana. “There’s absolutely nothing to fear about Wicca! Do you know that Catholic priest? Father Ed?”

  “Sure,” said Lucy.

  “Well, he called me up last night, quite late, and tried to get me to submit to an exorcism. Can you believe it?”

  Lucy knew that Father Ed was a sociable sort who spent most evenings down at the new waterfront pub that had replaced the notorious Bilge. If he’d called late at night, he’d probably had a drink or two and was probably reacting to the scuttlebutt he’d heard from the local fishing crowd.

  “You need to take this seriously,” warned Lucy. “It sounds to me like people are talking about you and not in a good way. We’ve also been getting letters here at the paper complaining about you.”

  “Look, thanks for calling and everything, but I am not going to be intimidated by a bunch of barflies and gossips. Business is up now that summer’s finally here and the tourists have arrived, and I’m not about to turn tail and run. It seems to me that the best thing I can do is just carry on, and pretty soon people will get used to having a witch in town—a good witch.”

  Ted had arrived and Lucy knew she had to get back to work. “Well,” she said, ending the call, “don’t say you weren’t warned.”

  “I’ve got a warning for you,” said Ted, striding across the office to his desk. “It’s a deadline, not a guideline.”

  “Everything’s under control,” Lucy assured him, wishing she believed it.

  Miriam’s funeral was scheduled for eleven o’clock the following Saturday morning. Lucy had an interview scheduled with a woman who was organizing a drive to fill care packages for soldiers in Iraq, so she was running late. The service was well under way when she and the girls arrived, slipping in a pew at the back of the church.